Handprints
by Telentropy X
Summary: After Detective Ballard lets the boys escape custody, Sam and Dean find themselves in Salem, Massachusetts, where Dean hopes they can catch a small break. They should have known better. Dean's favorite waitress has strange bruises on her arms and people start dying under odd circumstances. But there aren't any witches in Salem. That would be too cliche, wouldn't it? Pilot: Part 1
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hihi! So, I meant to post this as my first Supernatural fic...can we pretend that I did? Yeah? Great! Okay, here's the thing. I have a thing about OCs, and by that, I mean that just about anything of mine you read will have an OC in it. It's just how my brain works.

This one is for Dean, (yes, I am a Dean girl, unless Cas walks in and then it's a problem) because he breaks my heart. He does so much, gives so much and doesn't get anything back. Heck, even Sam screws him over on occasion and that's not right! Put plainly, his life kinda sucks and despite his protests, we all know he wants somebody that loves him, no strings. Yes, Sammy loves him, but that's different. He has to protect himself from Sammy as much as he protects Sammy. It's not fair and I wanted something good to happen to him. Looking at YOU, Supernatural Writers, that's right, torture someone else for a change.

This is set in S2 after Detective Ballard lets the boys escape. I checked the timeline just to make sure I had my stuff right (I'm a researcher, what can I say?) and there was a pretty big activity gap between that and their next hunt, so I decided to sock this in there.

Hope you enjoy! And don't hesitate to review!

* * *

The sun was shining brightly in the bright, autumn sky and the air flowing through the open windows of the '67 Impala was crisp and refreshing. Dean Winchester hummed along with the Led Zeppelin tape blaring through the speakers, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel while Sam stared out the window.

"And he's angsty," Dean quipped.

"I'm not angsty," Sam replied.

Dean glanced sideways at him and opened his mouth to comment on the irony of Sam's heavy tone of voice, then saw the look in his brother's eyes. "You've been like this all day, Sammy. What's up?"

"Nothing," Sam told him.

"Sam," Dean said his name in that gruffly urging way that usually prompted his brother to spill whatever was on his mind.

"It's nothing," Sam insisted, then, when Dean turned the music off, "It's mine and Jess' anniversary today."

"Oh," Dean said softly. "Sorry, man."

"Me too," Sam sighed.

"So, where are we?" Dean asked, breaking the silence once more.

Sam pulled the roughed-up map from the glove compartment. "Salem," he said.

"Dude, you didn't even open the map," he said, then he saw the road sign.

"Didn't need it," Sam grinned at Dean's sarcastic grimace. "Well, the good news is, it's not a big place and there are plenty of other towns around and past it."

"Whaddya say we get some food?" Dean interrupted.

"You want to stop in Salem Massachusetts?" Sam asked. "Dude, are you just wanting more problems?"

"No, I want to eat. I'm starving," Dean answered. "And I want a bed to sleep in. I mean, the backseat's comfy and all, but—Oh, we also need more first aid stuff and road snacks. Besides," he grinned at Sam's distressed expression, "it'd be too ironic for Salem to have any witches left. It'll be fine."

"You've said that too often when it wasn't," Sam told him. "I don't think I believe you anymore."

"Aw, that hurts, Sammy, it really does," Dean told him with a wince of mock pain as he pulled into the parking lot of a small restaurant that looked like Abe Lincoln's cabin, only twice the size. He killed the engine and they stepped out of the car. "The Bell Tower," he read the name aloud. "You gettin' any ghosty vibes yet?"

"No," Sam answered, after a brief moment of actually checking to see if he felt uneasy.

"Good, let's eat!" Dean said and strode up to the door.

The lighting inside was intended to imitate candle-light. Despite that, the dark, wooden interior was well-lit and seemed to absorb some of the noise from the chatting patrons, giving the place a cozy kind of feel. The host station was empty but there was a small chalkboard on a silver stand that had 'Please, Seat Yourself' written in something close to calligraphy. They walked on inside and selected a table by a window, close to the door, so Sam had a view of the car and Dean had a view of the room. He caught sight of a couple of the waitresses, a tall, willowy blonde, and a curly-haired brunette. The white button-downs and black pants they wore as a uniform were incredibly complimentary, and he mentally thanked whoever had assigned the outfits. Sam's nervous drumming pulled him from his reverie.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean said with a smirk.

"What?" Sam turned a longsuffering look on his brother.

"Boo."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Jerk."

"Bi—" Dean swallowed the rest of the insult as their waitress approached the table with menus tucked under one arm. She had the elegant features of a feline and the tendrils of black hair that framed her model-worth cheekbones made his heart beat just a little bit faster. However, her black-rimmed, almond eyes sized them up with a wariness that puzzled him.

Nothing that a little Winchester charm won't handle.

"How are you today?" she asked pleasantly, setting down the menus. Her voice was low-pitched, could have been sultry if she had wanted it to be, and sent pleasant shivers up Dean's spine.

Not from here. The accent's wrong.

"We are fantastic," he said, flashing his dashingly roguish smile.

She gave him a small smile and turned to Sam. "And how are you?"

"Oh—um, I'm good," he stammered, caught off-guard by the attention. "Just a—a long day on the road."

She nodded and flipped out her notebook. The front door opened, spilling the late afternoon light and four shadows over the floor.

"You from around here?" Dean asked to confirm his suspicion, ignoring Sam's scolding glance.

"No, not really," she answered. "So, my name's—"

"Mikaela!"

She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth.

"Come on over here and give me some sweetness, why doncha?"

"Plenty of sweetness on the table, Todd. Help yourself," she called without looking. "What can I start you off with?" she asked Dean and Sam, pulling out her notebook.

"I'll have—"

"Aw, c'mon, you're gonna be all nice to them and ignore me?"

"—water, please," Sam finished.

"Coke, for me," Dean said and leaned back in his chair like he was stretching. The guy that kept hollering at their waitress look like he hadn't had a bath in three days, his grease-stained ball cap marked him as a mechanic and he had his hands on his skinny hips like it made him look authoritative.

"I'll be in my usual spot," the grease-monkey said with a leer. "If I had known you were working Mondays now, we wouldn't have ordered To-Go." He didn't even pretend to try and be discreet about the slow Up-Down-Up look he gave her and she bit her lip as his cohorts chuckled suggestively.

Something about the whole situation rankled Dean and before he realized it, he started to slide off of his bench.

"Don't," Mikaela told him quietly and he looked up at her in surprise. "You'll just encourage him if you pay him any attention."

"You're ignoring him and he's still encouraged," he said in a low voice as Todd and his three leering buddies finally moved to a table.

"My lucky day," she quipped. "I'll be back in a minute with your drinks."

Dean watched her walk away but without his usual smirk of approval, his eyes locked on the back of her head, the long braid falling down her back.

"What is it?" Sam asked, a little worried by the thoughtful look on his brother's face.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked in return. He wasn't evading Sam's question for once, but that just made Sam more concerned.

"You've got this 'How-Many-Times-Can-I-Hit-This-Guy-And-Still-Make-It-To-The-Door-Before-The-Cops-Show-Up' look," Sam pointed out.

"Something's not right, Sam," Dean replied seriously.

"You mean, besides that jerk coming in and talking to her like she was a prostitute?" Sam asked.

"Well, for all we know, she could be, Sammy," Dean said. "This could just be her day job." He rubbed his chin. "But she had this look…I dunno. Something's just not right."

"Here you go," Mikaela appeared at the table with two tall glass, napkins, straws and a basket of rolls. "You still need a minute?" she asked.

They looked down and realized they hadn't touched their menus.

"Actually," Dean began, flashing that easy-going grin, "we were curious if you had any recommendations."

"Hmm," she said thoughtfully. "Appetizers or entrees?"

"We'll start with appetizers," Dean said. "You have a favorite?"

She nodded. "The fried sweet peppers with the chipotle dip."

"Oh, wow, that does sound good," Sam remarked. "Can we get two of those?"

She jotted the order down. "And I can list off the best entrees but you'll be here for a while," she offered.

"We'll just do a quick glance-over, then," Sam chuckled.

Dean watched as she walked away to the table where Todd sat and saw that she stopped a good three feet from the group.

"She really doesn't like that guy," he commented, watching her step away from Todd in disgust.

"Would you?" Sam asked over his menu.

"I don't," Dean replied. "Oh, this looks good. The All-American Burger. Little bit of everything and homemade fries. Sold! Hey, look at this," he drew Sam's attention to the Appetizer page. "Mikaela's Fried Peppers. Think she makes 'em?"

"Probably not," Sam answered dryly.

Mikaela brought their appetizers a little while later, studiously ignoring the catcall from Todd. Dean ordered the All-American Burger and Sam ordered a steak dinner. While they waited, Dean kept his attention on the other table, debating with himself on whether to make sure they left quickly or to mind his own business.

"Dean," Sam said in a cautioning tone, catching the hard look in his brother's eyes.

"I know," he answered reluctantly. A moment later, Mikaela strode toward the table with a stack of to-go plates. As she walked past Todd's chair, Dean watched her do an awkward sidestep, set the last plate down and walk away as the men's laughter rang out obnoxiously. Her teeth were clenched with fury but her eyes seemed empty and she looked…tired. A short while later, she reappeared with their meals.

"Here you go, sorry about that wait," she said, fighting to maintain her previous pleasantness.

"It's not a problem at all," Sam assured her as she set his plate down.

"Did that douche-bag actually grab you?" Dean demanded indignantly, his voice straining to keep the volume at a whisper.

"What do you care?" she asked and he saw a shimmer in her dark eyes. "It's not like the thought didn't cross your mind, too."

As she set his plate down, his startled gaze went from her face to her wrist as the green outline of a healing bruise showed beneath her shifting sleeve.

"Here's the dessert menu," she said, a tremor in her voice. "If you want anything else, just let me know."

Any other time, Dean would have answered that with flirty, bold 'Oh, I definitely need something else'.

"Thanks," he said quietly as she walked stiffly away.

Sam perused the dessert booklet while he ate. "They have about ten different kinds of pies and cakes here."

"Hm," Dean grunted noncommittally. "Got a pen?"

"Yeah, sure," Sam said and fished one out of his jacket pocket.

Dean scribbled something on a napkin and started counting the bills in his wallet. Before they finished, he slipped a twenty under his glass with the napkin. When they left, he hadn't even glanced at the dessert menu.

Thirty minutes later, they were still driving looking for a motel that Dean liked.

"Dude, that's the fifth one we've walked out of," Sam said, baffled by his brother's sudden pickiness. Usually, if the place didn't smell like roaches, it was good enough to sleep in and sometimes even that didn't matter. "What's up with you?"

"Didn't like it," Dean said simply and unhelpfully.

Sam studied him incredulously, seeing the tight purse of his lips and the angry glint in his eyes. "You're still hot about the waitress and that guy in the restaurant, aren't you?"

"Yeah, Sammy, I am," Dean answered shortly. "Little bit."

The straightforward reply told Sam everything he needed to know about Dean's mental state. His brother was upset, dangerously upset.

"Why did that bother you so much?" he asked carefully.

"Why?" Dean repeated heatedly. "Why? Why did that bother me? You're right, Sam. Why would that bother anybody?"

Sam held his hands up. "That's not how I meant it, Dean," he said.

"Well, then please, Sam, by all means, clarify your meaning," Dean snapped sarcastically.

"Dean, you hit on women all the time," Sam told him and his brother shot him the glare that usually preceded him pulling the car over and nothing good ever came from those moments. "You do! Whether we're on a hunt or not. If there's an attractive woman, you say something—"

"Not if they don't want it, Sam," Dean interrupted sharply. "She says 'no', I stop. I don't push. But you can't tell me that that back there was the same. That? That's how women end up rape victims. 'Cause of guys like Toddy-Boy who won't take 'no' for an answer. I can't believe it didn't bother you."

"Just because I wasn't motivated to beat the guy's face in, doesn't mean it didn't bother me," Sam retorted defensively. "I just…I dunno. It's like, if it's not a ghost or a spirit or a demon…"

Dean nodded, understanding what his brother was trying to say. Sometimes, it was hard to switch gears from the supernatural to the natural, hard to view people as an actual danger when there were spirits and vampires and a hundred other things to worry about.

"Let's check this place out," he suggested and pulled into another motel parking lot. The building was actually kind of small and the outside was all dark wood and white plaster. The sign in the middle of the autumn landscaping said 'Hodge's Lodge' in shiny brass letters.

Sam huffed a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Dean, first it's Salem. Now, it's a motel that looks like it came from eighteenth-century Britain. Are we on a job and you're just not telling me?"

"No, Sam," Dean assured him. "No job."

They walked inside, expecting dark floors and walls and candle-imitation lighting. The wooden floors were very dark, almost black, but the walls were painted a faint, pastel blue and the antique light fixture in the foyer illuminated every corner of the room. A simple, white vase filled with live mums adorned the desk next to a silver bell. Dean leaned over the desk, looking for someone to question about the place and finally tapped the bell, sending its tiny chime singing around the room.

"Kind of minimalistic," Sam remarked, examining the light décor. "Make's the room feel bigger."

"That was the idea," a voice sing-songed and Dean turned to see a pretty, petite blonde bounce up to the counter, her short curls dancing around her rosy cheeks. "With the ceilings as low as they are, we wanted to avoid a claustrophobic atmosphere. Especially since my grandfather was claustrophobic. How can I help you?"

"We are looking for a room," Dean told her with a smile.

"Well, we have plenty of those," she chirped.

"Yeah, the thing is though," he leaned against the counter and lowered his voice slightly, "we don't really know how long we're gonna be in town."

Sam looked over at him, waiting to hear him ask for the girl's number.

"Oh, that's not a problem at all," she said and produced a clipboard. "Cash or card?"

"Uh, card," he said.

Sam was still waiting to hear a pick-up line.

"Okay, that makes it a little easier," she said. "What we'll do is book you for a week, or however long, and if you leave early, the difference goes back on the card. If you stay longer, the process just starts all over."

Dean nodded and handed over a card and ID.

She ran the card while he signed paperwork. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Benefield," she said with a flirtatious sparkle in her eyes. "My name is Wendy Snyder and if you need anything while you're here, please let me know. What kind of room would you like?"

"Two beds," Dean told her. "What amenities do you offer?"

"We offer a full, free continental breakfast," she said. "We also deliver to the rooms but that costs a little extra. I'll give you some cards to hang on your door so you can tell us which one you want."

"Wi-Fi?" Sam asked.

"Absolutely," she replied. "The room will be $80 a night. That's the Slow Time of the Year discount."

Sam nearly rolled his eyes at the coquettish smile the girl was giving Dean.

"We'll take it," Dean told her, either missing or ignoring the obvious flirting.

After she had shown them upstairs and they had brought up their duffel bags, Dean flopped across the bed and Sam set up his laptop.

"You want to tell me what's going on?" he asked Dean's booted feet.

"No," Dean replied but knew if Sam pressed the issue, he wouldn't have the stamina to fend him off.

"We normally shop motels by price, place or features," Sam went on. "You didn't ask about any of that until she said we didn't need a set departure date. Is that what you were looking for at the other places?"

Dean sighed heavily and at any other time, Sam would have taken the hint and backed off.

"Why, Dean?" Sam demanded quietly, not wanting to pick a fight when he was only concerned for his brother. "There's no job here. And Salem is kind of a strange place for us to vacation. For starters, it's not even warm. I thought for sure, that if you wanted to kick back for a while, it'd be in Miami or some other place crawling with mostly naked women."

"Sam," Dean groaned his name, as close to a plea as he would ever come.

"What is going on?" Sam said slowly.

Dean sat up and rubbed his neck. "I'm tired, Sam," he said at last and the vulnerability in his eyes made Sam nervous. "I was just gonna keep driving until I couldn't anymore. I didn't mean to stop here, Sammy, I just…did. Ever since Dad—" he broke off painfully.

Sam kept quiet, just letting his brother talk, feeling himself relax as Dean opened up.

"I feel like I'm underwater," Dean continued, a lost look in his eyes. "I can't find the surface and I can't touch bottom. There's nothing…nothing to orient me and I'm just…tired. I just wanna stop for a little while."

Sam nodded. "I understand," he said softly. "Maybe if we decide to get out, we can try and get a picture of Giles Corey's ghost," he grinned at the thought of the one fable they knew of that was actually just that. A fable.

Dean scoffed a laugh. "If Giles Corey shows up, I'll do more than take his picture."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hihi! So, about this waitress...

This isn't a long chapter, just enough to give you something about Mikaela. I had a little bit of difficulty with it for some reason, so if anybody sees something that's thin, or anything like that, please let me know.

Shoutout to 1Corinthians 1313! Don't worry, Todd will get his comeuppance.

Enjoy!

* * *

Tuesdays were always slow days and whenever Todd showed up, they seemed to go by even slower. When the two out-of-towners walked in, Mikaela's breath had hitched in her chest. Both of them were tall, strong men and something about the shorter one made her heart stutter. Then, when they sat at one of her tables, she wasn't sure she'd be able to do her job. Talking to men who looked like that had never ended well for her. He'd flashed that smile that she knew he'd used innumerable times to get women to do whatever he wished and she felt herself draw back, refusing to fall prey to that player-glint in his eyes.

What she had never expected was how indignant he became over Todd's behavior and she surprised herself when she realized that she wished he'd stayed longer, at least until Todd left. Not that she trusted him, but she liked that he took an instant dislike to Todd.

 _Maybe I shouldn't have stopped him. I certainly wouldn't have minded seeing Todd sport a black eye for a while._

As she collected the dishes from their table, she spied the green edge of a bill under a wet napkin. As she picked it up, she saw that not only was it a twenty dollar bill, but the napkin was makeshift note. The condensation had blurred some of the ink but she could still read it clearly.

 _"_ _Hope this makes your day a little better. I don't know if you share tips or not, but this is a case of 'not'."_

Something about it nearly put tears in her eyes and in the process of drying her hands on her apron, she slipped the bill into her pocket. Samantha had withheld tips from the pot all last week and she was suffering from it.

 _I don't know who you were, but you just bought me groceries._

As she carried the dishes to the kitchen, Lauren caught her by the sinks.

"So, did they tip good?" the brunette asked playfully.

Mikaela grimaced and shrugged.

"Aw, sorry, Mikaela," Lauren pouted. "That's too bad."

"Don't worry, I've got us covered," Samantha announced, striding into the kitchen like a model on a runway. "Seriously, I will never understand why Charlie hired you," she said snidely to Mikaela as she dropped more dishes into the sink, splashing hot water all over the other girl. Mikaela refused to flinch at the burn. "Ever since then, I've been having to work twice as hard just to get us decent tips to share."

"Samantha," Mikaela began evenly, "I haven't seen you do anything extra since I got here. And you were popping the top button on your blouse and stuffing your bra on my first day, so I know that whatever monetary problems you may or may not be having, were there long before I arrived. So, why don't you find someone else to con emotionally." She phrased the suggestion like a statement, almost as a command.

Usually, Mikaela ignored them both. However, she was feeling a little bit bolder after finding that note.

Samantha narrowed her eyes venomously and stepped invasively close to the black-haired girl. "Go ahead and turn your nose up," she hissed. "Just don't forget that you benefit from that cash too."

"Are you referring to the twenty you just got for wearing a black bra, or the fifty I got yesterday by waiting on a table of five while you stepped out back to give Don some lip-service?" Mikaela asked coolly. "You do know he's married, right?"

"Stay out of my business!" Samantha snarled in her face, trying to intimidate her with the few extra inches of height she had.

Mikaela scoffed. "I have no desire to be in your business," she said flatly. "But when your business shows up at my place of employment, it's kind of hard to ignore."

"Oh, please, get off of your high-horse," Lauren commented snidely, ever Samantha's faithful underling. "It's not like you really have any room to talk. Nobody actually buys that 'good-girl' act you put on."

Mikaela cocked an eyebrow at her. "That's not my problem," she said indifferently.

She glided past them both and went back to her tables, praying that the day would pass quickly so she could go home. She stayed fairly busy and before she knew it, it was five o'clock.

"Mikaela, I need you to get table five for me," Samantha stated imperiously. "It's that old woman that spends ten minutes ordering and sends everything back three times."

"Sorry," Mikaela said and wasn't sorry a bit. "I just clocked out."

Samantha stared at her with her mouth open, the picture of indignation. "Unbelievable," she scoffed and snatched up her pen and pad.

Mikaela collected her share of the tips from the breakfast and lunch shifts, put on her jacket and walked out with a smile she just barely managed to hide. She immediately headed to the store to buy just enough groceries to last until her paycheck on Friday and she felt an odd twinge of regret when she handed the cashier that twenty dollar bill.

 _Wouldn't mind seeing him again, actually. Not like that'll happen, but it'd be nice. I'd like to have the chance to thank him, at least._

She stuffed her meager groceries into her backpack and made her way to the apartment complex that had been her home for the past three months. The place wasn't as new as others in the area and the stairwells smelled funny when it rained, but the walls were well-insulated and that was what mattered. She trekked up the three flights of stairs, straining her tired eyes to see through the dim lighting, and unlocked her apartment with a grateful sigh. She barely had enough energy left to unpack her bag, let alone shower and get ready for bed. She stuffed the half gallon of milk in the fridge that never seemed to be cold enough, dumped some Spaghettios into one of the three plastic bowls she owned and cooked it in the microwave that took three times longer than normal to heat anything up.

 _At least I have something to heat up tonight…_

She shook her head in frustration, as though trying to dislodge the memory of the guy in the restaurant, the indignant look on his handsome face as he watched her endure Todd's disrespect.

 _Figures that the only person who seemed to care was just passing through._

The microwave beeped for the third time and she scowled at it as she took her bowl and plunked down on the couch. Of all the things she hated about this apartment, the couch and the bed weren't among them. She ate her supper but try as she might, she couldn't shake the morose feeling that had settled on her.

"Please, he's long gone by now," she scoffed at her wishful thinking. "With any luck, I will be too before long. I just wish that…I could tell him thank you."

She looked down into her Spaghettios and suddenly, the meal tasted a lot better, especially since she had been looking at a night with a pack of crackers for supper. She dropped the empty bowl in the sink and left it. She was off work tomorrow, she'd clean up then. As she slipped into her sweatpants and a shirt, she stared at the bruises covering her arms, some green and healing, others still blue and painful. One advantage of cold weather was the heavy clothing, the long sleeves that kept everyone from asking just whose handprints were all over her arms.

She sighed and climbed under the pile of blankets on her bed. She was so tired, her eyes were closed before she even really got settled and she hoped that, just for tonight, she'd have a reprieve.

* * *

Just what are those bruises from, then?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So, it's been a little while but if you've followed me previously, you know it's not unusual. Not making excuses, just saying. This chapter gave me a big fit. Not because I couldn't write it, but because too much was happening too soon. Seriously, I had to hack off half of it and do a re-write to make it behave.

Shoutout to 1Corinthians 1313! I guess you really didn't like Samantha lol

Enjoy!

A/N: Argh! I keep redoing some of the dialogue because I can't get it how I want! Maybe I'll be happy now...maybe.

* * *

Dean woke up the next morning to find Sam already clicking away on the computer.

"Dude, no jobs," he moaned and rolled over resentfully, checking his watch and scowling at the digits reading 7:00 am.

"Not looking for a job, Dean," Sam replied.

"Then, what're you doing?" Dean demanded.

"I'm making sure that there's nothing happening close by that we need to be aware of," Sam told him. "Also checking to see if we've hit law-enforcement radar. We're still wanted, you know?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean snipped. "I'd forgotten." He sat up and pulled on his boots, the only article of clothing he'd managed to take off the night before. Then, he thought better of it, grabbed a change of clothes and headed for the shower with a sudden eagerness.

Sam watched him, his brow furrowed in confusion, then went back to his computer, shaking his head.

"Mood swings," he muttered.

A little while later, Dean emerged from the bathroom with a cloud of steam.

"That shower's got great pressure," he remarked happily. "I'm going out for breakfast, you coming?"

Sam glanced up in surprise. "Nah, I think I'll try out the room service. I need to finish this up."

"Okay," Dean said with a shrug. "If I get nabbed, I'll tell the cops I dumped you on the side of the highway," he grinned. "Extra baggage. Slowing me down. That kinda thing."

"Thanks," Sam said dryly. "I'd appreciate that."

Dean trotted down the stairs and strode to the Impala. The engine rumbled to life when he cranked it and he pulled away, taking care to mind the speed limit signs, for once. A little while later, he pulled into the parking lot of the Bell Tower. While he and Sam had browsed for lunch the day before, he had noticed a breakfast menu and more than one item had caught his attention. He strode inside and was greeted by the happy buzz of breakfast conversation and a 'Please Wait To Be Seated' written on the chalkboard sign in neat block letters.

"Hi, how are you?" the willowy blonde waitress chirped with a bright smile. "Just you?"

"Uh, yeah, just me," Dean replied looking around briefly. "Is Mikaela here?"

If his life hadn't depended on reading people and situations at every given moment, he might have missed the petty anger that flashed in the girl's blue eyes at his question.

"No, she's off today," she answered with a smile. "But I'm _more_ than happy to take care of you."

 _Off? Off where?_

"Uh-huh, yeah, no thanks," he said almost absentmindedly and walked right back out the door, missing the girl's gaping look of indignation.

He sighed with disappointment as he slid behind the wheel of the Impala.

"Geez, get a grip," he muttered, shaking his head. He turned the key and the engine rumbled to life. The sound always brought a smile to his face. However, once he was on the road, he realized that he had nowhere to go. He didn't want to go back to the motel just yet, in fact, he didn't want to go back at all. He wanted to leave, to just start driving and never stop. But at the same time, he wanted to stop, just… _stop_. The conflicting desires threatened to suffocate him.

The Impala had always been his haven, from the time he was a child, sitting in the backseat with baby Sammy so he wouldn't cry. Even now, he realized that he—and Sam to an extent—viewed the car like the base in a game of tag or hide-and-seek. If you could just _get there_ , you were safe from everything that was chasing you. Now, however, the smell of the leather seats, the heat from the vents and the rumbling engine were tormenting him, conjuring memory after memory that he had been fighting so hard not to face. He could practically see his dad in the driver's seat while he sat either beside him, or behind him with Sam, heading to or away from a hunt. The memory of his dad's deep, gruff voice carved into him the bitter reminder that he'd never hear that sound again, not in this life.

The memories paraded through his mind, no matter how hard he tried to shove them back in their box. Then, they stopped, lingering on one moment that he hadn't even been aware had been made _into_ a memory.

* * *

Snow was falling. In Colorado, snow always seemed to be falling. Dean had overheard his dad muttering about how the snow was going to cover the tracks of the ghoul he had come to kill. Sammy had been begging to go play in the snow, but when they arrived at the motel and John settled them in with instructions to not leave, that was that.

Still, for the two days that John was gone, Sam had kept up his hope that they'd get to play in the snow. Dean didn't have it in him to tell him that as soon as their dad got back, they'd be leaving as quickly as they arrived.

"Whatcha want for your birthday, Sammy?" he asked, trying, once again, to distract his brother from the white stuff falling outside the window. "You're gonna be six so you gotta make it good."

Sammy looked at him in surprise, knowing that his birthday was months away. "I dunno," he said, then his face scrunched up as he started to actually think about what he might want,

"Your face is gonna get stuck like that," Dean told him with a smirk.

"Uh-uh! Won't either!" Sammy protested, pursing his mouth into a frown.

"Oh no! It already did!" Dean cried.

Sammy opened his mouth to argue and the door opened. Snow floated in on the cold air that seemed to melt into the room and John stepped inside.

"You boys get packing," he said gruffly. "We leave in thirty."

"Yes sir," Dean replied and instantly started gathering up what little he and Sammy had pulled out of their bags. John loaded the car, Dean buckled Sammy in the backseat and they drove away.

"I'm cold, Dean," Sammy said, trying to sink farther into his heavy coat and toboggan to escape the chilled air and leather seat.

"I know. The car will warm up in a minute," Dean promised. "Just hope your butt doesn't freeze solid, we'll have to leave you in the car if it does."

Suddenly, the car decelerated and pulled off the road.

"What's wrong, Dad?" Dean asked, leaning forward and putting a hand protectively against Sammy's chest.

"There's something we need to do before we go," John said, turning the car off.

"We? But, Dad, what about Sammy?"

"Sammy's coming too," John told him and climbed out.

Dean unbuckled Sammy and the two slid across the seat to follow their dad. Dean looked around in confusion at the park playground. The snow covered everything and since it was still falling steadily, there was no way of knowing if anybody had come here before them.

"You wanted to play in the snow, right, Sammy?" John asked.

Sammy looked up at him, still holding Dean's hand, curiously hopeful. Then, a slow smile spread across his face and he took off, kicking snow as he went, squealing happily. Dean glanced at his dad, a question in his eyes. John nodded once and Dean followed Sam at a run, scooping up snow as he went.

"Hey! Sammy!" he called and lobbed the snowball.

Sammy startled and fell on his butt when the snowball broke against his chest. "I'm gonna get you!" he shouted and started scooping snow into his little, mittened hands. "It's not working, Dean!" he cried in frustration as the snow crumbled out of his grip.

Dean came over and squatted beside him. "You have to pack it together," he said. "Mush it like the mud at Bobby's." He made a snowball so Sam could watch. "See? Snow doesn't mush, it makes a ball."

Sam tried again and after a moment, he held up his new snowball proudly. Then, he threw it at Dean.

"Hey!" Dean exclaimed, wiping the snow out of his eyes.

Sammy scrambled to his feet and ran away, laughing.

"Get back here, Sammy!" Dean chased his waddling brother.

For nearly an hour, the brothers threw snowballs at each other, made snow angels and walked through the snow, digging trenches with their feet.

"Boys, we have to go," John called.

They started walking back to the car, albeit with small groans of disappointment. Their eyes were bright and sparkling and their noses and cheeks were pink from the cold. Dean buckled Sammy in his seat and once they were both in the car, John slid behind the wheel. The engine rumbled to life and John revved it slightly to try and coax the heat through the vents a little faster.

"Dean," he called his name and handed him a white, lidded cup.

Dean pulled the tab on it and handed it to Sammy, then took the second cup John held out to him.

"Hot chocolate!" Sammy exclaimed happily after a sip. Then, he took a big drink of the warm liquid.

"Thanks, Dad!" Dean said. "When did you get it?" They hadn't stopped anywhere on the way to the park, which meant his father had planned this for them, probably ever since Sammy had first asked to play in the snow.

"I got it on my way back to the motel," John answered. "I figured it would be cool enough for you two to drink once you were finished playing."

"Thanks, Dad!" Sammy said happily and Dean laughed at the cocoa mustache on his lip. "What?"

"You look like you tried to put your whole face in it," Dean told him. He tugged his sleeve over his hand and wiped Sammy's mouth.

"We good?" John asked, watching them in the rearview mirror.

"Yes sir," Dean answered.

Sammy's face was back in his cup.

They pulled back onto the road and headed out of town. By the time they hit the highway, the boys had finished their cocoa and were sagging comfortably in the seat. Not too long after that, Sammy fell asleep, his baby cheek pressed against Dean's shoulder. The familiar smell of the car, the warmth spilling out of the vents and the rumble of the engine worked better than any lullaby and Dean began to feel drowsy. Even as he fought it, his cheek came to rest on Sammy's head and just before his eyes closed, he saw his dad watching them in the rearview… _a smile on his face._

* * *

Dean's eyes burned and he blinked to get rid of the sensation. When was the last time he'd seen his dad smile like that? Or… _was_ that the last time? He'd never questioned the things his dad did…or didn't do. Like not joining them in the snow that day, not being the one to show Sammy how to make a snowball. He hadn't thought twice about it then, hadn't paid the slightest attention to what his dad _was_ doing in moments like that.

John had stood by the car, where all of his weapons were, watching for danger while allowing his sons to be children for just a little while.

A constricting pain settled in his chest and he let out an unsteady sigh, pursing his lips to keep his emotions under control. He didn't do much else, though. Sammy wasn't there to see the shimmer in his eyes or hear his shaky breathing. He took a deep breath and forced everything down again.

The light was about to turn green and he checked the intersection, making sure nobody was ignoring their respective yellow lights…and caught sight of a woman with long, black hair sitting on a park bench. He turned to the right before the light changed and found a parking space. He hesitated to get out of the car, not wanting to approach some random woman if she wasn't who he was looking for. Then, the wind picked up, blowing leaves across the ground, causing her hair to flip over her neck and he saw her face. He left the car…and was suddenly at a loss for what to say to her.

Mikaela sat on the bench with her head bowed over her notebook. The pages were clipped to stop them from flipping in the breeze as she sketched. Her black, leather jacket effectively blocked the October chill and her jeans were soaking up the sun's weak warmth.

"Ah…excuse me?"

She looked up to see one of the two men who had come into the restaurant the day before, the one that she'd told to sit back down when Todd came in, the one that had left her a twenty dollar tip. He had one hand up like he was approaching a skittish animal. When their eyes met, that calming, I'm-not-a-threat gesture became a small wave.

"Hi," he said with a disarming smile.

"Hi," she returned softly, eyeing him with cool wariness as she closed her book.

"I—uh, I went by the restaurant," he began awkwardly. "But they said it was your day off, so…um…"

Dean kicked and cursed himself mentally. _Real smooth, Winchester. You just trying to scare her off?_

"Why would that matter?" she asked in confusion.

The question gave him the opening he'd desperately been trying to create.

"I wanted to know if you were okay," he said. "You know…after yesterday."

He watched her eyebrows arch up in an expression of genuine disbelief and for some reason, it twisted something in him.

"I also—" he hesitated. "We…kinda got off on the wrong foot."

She narrowed her eyes slightly and started to shift away from him, but stopped when she saw his hands spread in a silent request for patience.

"I'm a flirt," he confessed. "I am. Shameless, really."

"Just a flirt?" she asked.

He'd heard that question, and many variations of it, more times than he could count but this was the first time it hadn't been a come-on.

He gave her a helpless kind of grimace.

She cocked an eyebrow in a knowing expression. Of course not. He was good-looking and he obviously knew it. He probably had a half-dozen girlfriends in every town he passed through and she wasn't even going to consider the number of one-night-stands he'd probably had since the age of sixteen.

"But I'm not like _that_ ," he told her, his voice suddenly firm and there was a hardness in his gaze that surprised her.

She studied him for a moment and Dean felt himself get a little unsteady under her scrutiny. "I've heard that before," she told him.

"So, can we…start over?" he asked, cautiously hopeful when she didn't get up to leave.

She hesitated, caught off-guard by the question. "Sure," she said slowly.

He walked up to her, his long stride taking up the distance in two steps. He held out his hand and smiled. "Hi, I'm Dean."

A smile quirked at one corner of her mouth. "I'm Mikaela," she said, shaking his hand.

He glanced down appreciatively at her firm grip. "Nice to meet you," he said sincerely.

"You too," she replied with a small laugh. For a self-admitted Lady's Man, he seemed a little out of his depth and there was something undeniably cute about his uncertainty.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the bench.

"Sure," she said and slid over to allow him some room. When she had seen him sitting at her table the day before, it was obvious that he was a large man. But that was nothing compared to seeing him standing. He was not only tall and strongly built, but he had a certain, _dominating_ presence that seemed to fill the space around him. When he sat next to her, she almost felt enveloped in it.

He sighed, as though he'd been walking forever and finally found a place to rest. "How long have you lived here?"

She shrugged. "A few months," she said. "No, I'm not telling you where I live." Her tone was joking, but just barely.

"Wasn't gonna ask," he reassured her.

"Well, you're the first," she told him.

He nodded and looked at the empty park.

 _Glad I made a good first impression_ there _._

"Okay, I have to ask," he began, "that other waitress, the blonde one-"

"Samantha," she supplied the name.

"Her. She isn't, like, a succubus or anything, is she?"

A smile slowly stole over Mikaela's face and she pursed her lips, obviously trying not to laugh. "What?"

"A succubus," he repeated. "You know-"

"I know what a succubus is," she said as a laugh escaped. "It'd certainly explain some things if she was."

Dean smiled, glad to see an expression besides wariness directed at him. "Yeah, I didn't think you two were bosom buddies."

Mikaela scoffed. "No. Definitely not."

He expected her to rant about the other girl, airing her grievances and all the dirty laundry she had...but she didn't.

"Weird question," Dean said apologetically. "She just got a little peeved when I didn't stay to eat."

Mikaela glanced at from the corner of her eye, taking in his muscular build. "I bet," she said blandly. Then, she looked at him fully, a frown on her face. "Wait, so, you left when she told you I wasn't there?"

"Yeah," he answered and took a deep breath, preparing to take the plunge. "I went back because I wanted to see you." He felt her draw away from him but he kept going. "After yesterday, I wanted to see if you were okay. And I wanted to apologize for anything I might have done that was...inappropriate."

She froze, her mouth open and everything she'd been about to say to him erased from her mind.

 _You wanted to see him again, right? Well, here he is!_

She _had_ wanted to see him again. She had felt _safe_ in wanting to see him again because she knew she _wouldn't_. But now, as she studied him up close, his strong jaw, broad shoulders, those green eyes, she suddenly felt shy. Attraction bloomed warmly in her middle and she ducked her head to hide the color rising into her cheeks.

"Um..." she began uncertainly, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I actually was hoping I'd get to see you before you left."

Dean glanced at her in surprise. Nothing about her tone or demeanor was flirtatious and the emotion in her eyes unsettled him a bit.

"I wanted to thank you," she said.

"You didn't even let me do anything," Dean reminded her.

"I didn't mean about _that_ ," she told him. "I mean, yes, thank you but…that twenty you left? That bought me groceries."

He stared at her, alarmed by the what-ifs that flashed through his mind.

"Samantha had been skimming tips all last week," she explained. "And I was short, but I still had rent to pay. I just...wanted you to know."

"I—Do—Do you need—?" Dean stammered out his question.

"No," she assured him quickly. "No, it'll last until Friday. But thank you." The sunlight glittered across his bright green eyes and she thought she caught a hint of something in them before he blinked.

"Do you not have family? Anybody you can get in touch with if you need help?" he asked, horrified by the idea of her being at everyone's mercy and alone. Even when Sam had been at Stanford and at such terrible odds with their father, Dean had known that if he'd ever needed help, Sam would give it to him. He _had_ given it to him.

"No," she said. "But it's okay.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"Georgia," she answered.

"Really?" Dean remarked. "You don't sound like you're from Georgia."

She smiled a little. "I travel a lot."

"And you traded warm, sunny Georgia for Massachusetts?" Dean queried lightly, backing off. "I mean, it's nice, don't get me wrong. I just prefer a warmer climate."

"I wanted something different," she answered easily. "So, I've been hitchhiking around the country."

 _Running._

"And you just decided to stick around here?"

"Something like that," she replied. "I stopped to look for a job but nobody was hiring except the Bell Tower and one of the auto-body shops. I tried the body shops first."

"Really?" Dean commented in surprise.

"What?" she cocked an eyebrow as though daring him to be offended.

"No, nothing," he said quickly. "I just…" he faltered, seeing the look on her face. "What do you specialize in?" he covered smoothly.

"Hmm, nice," she said dryly.

 _Okay, maybe not so smoothly._

"I'm not _that_ good," she told him. "But I knew enough that I had a job at the one place that was hiring. Until Todd came into the picture."

"That figures," he snorted.

"Yeah," she confirmed and leaned over to stuff he book into her backpack. As she tucked her hair behind her ear, she caught sight of the black Impala and something clicked. "She yours?"

Dean followed her gaze to the car and his face lit up with a proud smile. "Yep, she is," he announced, then realized she had referred to his baby as 'she'.

"She's beautiful," Mikaela said. "'67?"

"Yeah," he confirmed and felt his unexpected, protective urge toward her shift into something a little bit warmer. "You wanna…check her out?"

"I'd love to," she said and he heard a note of excitement in her voice. She grabbed her bag and walked to the car with him.

Unable to help himself, Dean raised the hood. "V8 327 4 barrel," he said proudly. "275 horses." He watched her glance over the engine and realized with a small, curious thrill that she knew exactly what she was looking at and the smile tugging on her lips told him she appreciated it.

"Nice," she said and something about how she said sent a shiver up his spine. "My dad had a '70 Chevelle SS. The LS6," she told him, her eyes softening with nostalgia. "I helped him restore it. I loved that car."

He closed the hood and held up a hand. "Hang on a second," he said with a grin and went and opened the driver door. "Listen." He leaned inside and cranked the car.

The engine rumbled to life and Mikaela smiled and placed her hand on the hood, feeling the powerful idle.

"She sounds great," she told him, a sparkle in her dark eyes.

He nodded in knowing agreement. "Hey, would you like to…go for a ride?" he asked suddenly.

She raised her eyes to his and there was a suspicious sharpness in her gaze.

He held up his hands. "Have I not been a gentleman?" he asked gently.

Her eyes softened. "You have," she conceded.

"I know you've probably heard that question a lot as a come-on," he told her. "I just…would you like to?"

She considered him for a moment. "I would," she said, "but no thank you."

Dean's eyes widened slightly, surprised and a little wounded.

"Look, you seem like a nice guy," she began apologetically, yet firmly, "but I don't know you. And, just because we seem to share an impeccable taste in cars," she smiled slightly to reduce some of the sting, "it doesn't mean I trust you."

"I understand," he said, trying to ignore the dull throb in his chest.

She nodded and he could see the relief in her eyes when he didn't press the issue.

"If it makes you feel better," she told him, "you're not the first."

He grinned. "For a minute I thought I was special."

She didn't try so hard to hide her smile this time. "Maybe, I'll see you around?"

"Yeah," he answered and his chest loosened just a little. "I'll certainly be around for a little while."

She nodded. "See you," she said and turned to leave.

"Mikaela," Dean called, coming after her.

She stopped and turned, the sound of her name coming from his deep voice put an electric current pulsing through her veins. His long stride brought him around the front of the car, an intense look on his face.

"Look, I know you just met me, you don't trust me and that's okay. I'd actually be worried if you did," he said, his words coming in an anxious rush. "But…if you get into trouble, if you need help…of any kind…will you let me know?"

The question stunned her and the sincerity in his eyes made her breath catch in her chest.

"So, am I just supposed to wait for you wander into the restaurant again?" she asked, not wanting to turn him down flat but unwilling to humor an empty offer.

He leaned into the passenger side, rummaged around in the glove compartment and produced a marker. He held out his hand to her and when she gave him hers, he started writing on her palm. Her head came up to his shoulder and standing this close, he could smell a hint of vanilla on her. The light fragrance made his pulse skip, something he hadn't experienced in a long time.

"That's me," he said, finishing writing his phone number—one of his phone numbers. "I mean it. Anything. If you call me, I'll come. Day or night, doesn't matter."

She stared at the numbers for a moment, struck by the honest concern behind the gesture, as well as by how neat his handwriting was.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

One corner of his mouth lifted in a half-grin and he walked back to the driver's side before he did something unforgivably stupid, like kiss those soft, full lips of hers. Only then did he realize that she still wasn't wearing any makeup besides that light-handed black eyeliner and that just circled her eyes, nothing fancy.

Mikaela watched him walk away, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest and making it difficult to breathe normally. He'd smelled like leather and trees, like he spent most of his time in the outdoors, and it had been so long since she'd been that close to a man and felt…safe. Suddenly, she didn't want him to leave.

"You know," she said as he opened the door. He stopped and looked at her curiously. "This almost felt like a date."

That pulled him up short. "Yeah," he agreed slowly. "Yeah, it kinda did." A smile touched his face, then, not his usual flirty smirk, or his reckless devil-may-care grin, but a real smile. "Tell me," he propped on the roof of the car, "what would it take for a guy to get a second almost-felt-like-a-date?"

She shrugged, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. "I guess he could just ask nicely," she suggested.

"Okay," he said. "Can I see you again?"

"I'm off Thursday," she told him.

"Same bat time, same bat station?" he asked teasingly.

She nodded. "I'll be here."

"Alright then," he said. "I'm looking forward to it."

She ducked her head to hide the sudden color tinting her cheeks. "See you," she said and walked away.

"See you," he called after her, then he got in the car and closed the door. He watched as she walked toward the intersection and waited for the light to change. "Come on, come on," he murmured. "Look back. Just a quick glance."

The light turned red and as she started across the street, she cast a look over her shoulder toward the black Impala.

"Yes!" he cheered softly. "Thank you!"

He cranked the car and drove away, but not toward the motel. He had one more thing he needed to do before he went back.

* * *

Okay, so I didn't plan the whole memory thing. Characters always tend to take over and do whatever the heck they feel like but I liked it and I like where it went. I don't like John, but he's not a character that I like to dislike. That being said, I would love to kick him in the shins with steel-toed boots for how he treats Dean. Yes, Sam catches the crap too, but he fights back. Dean can't. And I'm gonna stop there before we cover years worth of tumblr posts on this topic. I did want something that showed John being a dad. After all, all of their memories of him can't be horrible...can they? Nobody answer that.

I also have always pictured Dean as being just a little bit awkward when faced with a woman he actually liked, and not in the one-night-stand sense. Yes, he's a lady's man but...everybody's gotta meet their match sometime ;)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Hiya! So, here's this next bit. Obviously. Sorry it's taken so long, I've been working on other fics as well. Not to mention the semester has started again. Senior year! Hopefully, I'll graduate soon!

Shoutouts to: 1Corinthians 1313, Katy, basilbeast, Lyryenn and Rose! Thanks so much for the reviews!

Rose, never fear, I haven't abandoned the fic. It's just a slow work in progress. So happy to hear you're hooked :)

Lyryenn, yes, I'm in favor of that fate for Todd, too. Unfortunately, that's not Dean's style.

Things should start picking up in the chapter or so. Should. My muse is a cruel trickster. Not even loveably cruel like Gabriel. But things will happen :)

Enjoy!

* * *

Sam sat at the small table in the room sipping a cup of coffee. He had finally satisfied himself that they weren't showing up on any local police radar and had turned his efforts toward searching for signs of demonic activity. Yellow-Eyes had killed their mother, had nearly killed Dean and had killed their father.

Sam narrowed his eyes at his computer screen. "You're not getting Dean and you're not getting me," he muttered dangerously.

The memory of Dean being carved apart from the inside and lying comatose in the hospital haunted him. He looked at his watch. Dean had been gone for hours. Law Enforcement may not be on to them, but Yellow-Eyes could be. Suddenly anxious, he picked up his phone and started dialing Dean's number, prepared to deal with the crap his brother would dump on him for worrying.

 _I never should've let him go off alone._

The door jostled and Dean strode inside with a paper bag of groceries in one hand and a Honey Bun in the other.

"Hey," he said cheerfully through the icing coating his mouth. "You still monitoring our criminal status?" He nudged the door closed with his foot.

"Ah, no," Sam replied, deftly slipping his phone into his pocket. "I was actually looking for signs of…activity."

Dean's eyes sharpened. "And?"

Sam shook his head. "Nothing. At least, nothing major. I'll check for smaller occurrences next."

"Good, the sooner we nail him, the better," Dean growled and moved into the kitchenette with the groceries.

"Breakfast took a while," Sam commented. "And please tell me you got actual food?"

Dean smirked. "Nothing but the best, Sammy."

Sam sighed deeply and shook his head. "So, was your waitress there today?"

"Nah, it was her day off," Dean replied with a shrug.

Sam watched him unpack the bag. A myriad of snacks littered the counter as well as various, small items that could pass muster for a hasty breakfast. Well, a hasty breakfast according to Dean's standards, anyway.

"You didn't stay, did you?" he asked suspiciously.

Dean looked up at him, his face carefully schooled in an expression of innocent, yet disdainful confusion. "Stay where?"

"At the restaurant."

"Nah, didn't stay," Dean shrugged dismissively.

Sam's eyes narrowed. He'd expected his brother to start bragging about his latest conquest, or at least flash that suggestive smirk he was known for. Dean had done neither. "You didn't stay…because it was her day off?"

Dean shot him an exasperated look. "Isn't that what I said?"

"So…then what?"

Dean's expression went blank with confusion. "Then what…what?"

"You just left and went grocery shopping," Sam nodded at the bags. "What is all of this?"

"This? This is food, Sammy," Dean said, hoisting up the bags as though he was holding up flashcards for a toddler.

"According to who?"

Dean gave him a disappointed look. "Really, Sammy? Don't I always feed you right?"

Sam sighed. "Just, tell me there's some real food in with all that junk."

"Of course," Dean scoffed and ripped open a pack of strawberry Pop-Tarts.

"So, what else did you do while you weren't getting breakfast?" Sam asked, eyeing the sugary snack dubiously. "Dare I ask."

"I got a job."

Sam looked up at him, brows raising, waiting for the punchline. "No, really. What'd you do?"

Dean gave him a long-suffering look.

"You—you're actually serious," Sam sat back in shock. "Dean…why? We were gonna keep a low profile, remember?!"

"I figured since we were here, might as well do something to earn some cash," Dean answered with a disparaging shrug. Then, he smirked. "And we pull one good hustle when we leave."

"Where?" Sam asked, clenching his fists to fight the urge to throttle his brother.

"Small body shop not too far from here," Dean told him. "He's paying me under the table, Sam. I _have_ done this before."

"Have you ever been wanted for _murder_ before?" Sam asked, dropping his voice to a harsh whisper. Then, another thought struck him. "How long are you planning on staying?"

Dean shook his head, suddenly serious. "I don't know, Sammy, but I'm not gonna max out our cards while I figure it out."

Sam sighed, relieved that Dean seemed to know what he was doing, even though he had no real idea of what he was doing.

"Just keep doing what you're doing," Dean told him, sinking down into the other chair. "We have to find the Colt. Finding Yellow-Eyes won't do us a bit of good if we can't gank him."

Sam nodded and caught the beer Dean tossed to him. Dean sat across from him, took a swig of his beer and suddenly fixed his brother with a puzzled frown.

"Dude, did you call Mikaela 'my waitress'?"

"You mean, you actually remember what her name is?" Sam rejoined.

Dean looked offended. "Of course, I know her name."

"Really? What's the name of the receptionist downstairs?" Sam challenged.

"Cindy," Dean answered without hesitation.

Sam smirked. "Wendy."

"Oh," Dean frowned, then shrugged. "Close enough."

Sam opened his mouth to deliver a sharp retort, then thought better of it. "When does your job start?"

"Tomorrow," Dean replied, then he grinned. "And I got a date the day after."

"With who?" Sam asked, feeling more curious than usual.

"Mikaela," Dean told him with a patronizing smile. "You know, 'my waitress'?"

Sam cocked his head, peering at him suspiciously. "Yesterday, she wasn't your biggest fan. How'd you get a date with her that fast?"

Dean smiled softly, remembering black hair caught in the wind, dark eyes appraising his worth as a human being and sparkling with an appreciation of the rumble of Baby's engine.

"I asked nicely."

* * *

Mikaela shut the door of her apartment and leaned against the wall. She clenched her hands, trying to fight off the adrenaline that coursed through her veins.

 _Are you stupid?! What on earth made you agree to a date with this guy? No, forget agreeing—_ you _practically asked him out!_

"So what?! Am I not allowed to have anything that's any kind of normal?" she demanded out loud. "Am I not allowed to do something that might actually be fun? Am I just supposed to stay shut in for the rest of my life?"

The memory of Dean's deep voice sent a pleasant chill shivering up her spine. She looked down at her hand at the phone number he'd given her and added the number to her contacts before the ink smeared into illegibility. Now, she had three phone numbers, two of which, she'd never used and never would. Of course, Dean's was probably in that category already, too.

 _If you need me, call me._

"Yeah," she scoffed. "I've heard that before.

She flopped down on the couch with a sigh. "Who am I kidding? He probably won't show anyway. I'll just be wasting my off-day…"

However, as her mind played over their meeting and she remembered his steady gaze and the uncertainty swimming in the depths of his vibrant green eyes, she couldn't deny that she wanted to see him again. She felt…comfortable with him, and she didn't know why.

* * *

Dean walked into Taylor's Body Shop prepared to get his hands greasy. He'd already impressed the boss the day before when he gave an impromptu diagnosis for two vehicles in the garage. One had a bad coil pack, the other had a bad carburetor. Currently, though, he was buffing one of six newly painted doors.

"Hey, new guy!"

Dean looked up and fought to keep a neutral expression when he saw Todd sauntering up. "Yeah?"

"How are those doors coming along?"

Dean sat back on his heels and wiped a hand across his brow, using the brief few seconds to come up with a reply that wouldn't reveal his deep disgust for this creep.

"I'm on three of six, so I'd say they're coming along pretty well," he said.

Todd nodded like he was inspecting the work. "You think so?"

Dean bristled then and didn't try to hide it. "Yeah, I do."

Todd shrugged and the action was incredibly infuriating. "I've seen you somewhere."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Where'd you say you were from again?"

"I didn't," Dean told him coolly. "If you don't mind, I've got a job to finish. So why don't you go play supervisor with somebody else."

"Taylor doesn't usually hire people that quickly," Todd informed him suspiciously.

"That's what he said," Dean drawled and turned back to his buffing.

Todd narrowed his eyes in a glare. "Try not to scratch the paint," he tossed over his shoulder as he walked away.

Dean nodded and when he was done buffing, he snapped a photo of each door. Just in case.


	5. Chapter 5

Hello, hello! Wow, it's been even longer since I updated this one. Sorry about that. Life and stuff and things and chaos and a gazillion everythings that kept me from writing anything but homework papers. But I'm back and I have frrrrresh content!

Back with our fave boys! And a building mystery! Although most of this is just some delightful Winchester dialogue. What can I say? I love to hear mah boys talk ;)

Enjoy!

* * *

The Impala rolled up to the Bell Tower the next morning and Dean climbed out, heading inside for some breakfast. Sam followed, rolling his eyes with a long-suffering sigh. Dean ignored him, like he'd been doing all morning since they'd gotten up.

The sign said 'Please Be Seated' in that lovely, flowing script that meant Mikaela was working.

Dean was grinning as he slid into a booth and Sam rolled his eyes again.

Mikaela came up a moment later. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Coffee for me," Dean smiled. "And a juice box for Sammy."

Sam scowled at him. "Coffee, please," he told Mikaela pleasantly.

Mikaela nodded, not really reacting beyond a tiny quirk of an eyebrow. "Be right back," she smiled professionally and walked off.

"Really, Dean," Sam deadpanned.

"Hey, if you're gonna act like a child…" Dean shrugged.

"How am I acting like a child?" Sam demanded.

"You think I came back here just because she was working," Dean informed him archly.

"You did," Sam shot back.

Dean pointed at him. "I resent that accusation."

"Then let's change tables," Sam suggested.

"Why?"

"What do you care? You're only here for the food, anyway," Sam smirked.

Mikaela plunked two mugs in front of them and poured the steaming coffee. Then, she set down a little plate of cream and sugar.

Then she set down two juice boxes.

"Are you ready to order?" she asked sweetly.

Dean froze, staring at the juice box with a startled expression.

"Yes," Sam smiled and Dean shot him a look. Sam ignored him and ordered his breakfast of choice and Dean was left scrambling to choose something without losing his cool in front of her. He managed, but just barely.

When Mikaela walked away, Sam erupted into snickering laughter.

"I like her," he grinned.

"Get your own," Dean grumbled at him.

"Maybe she prefers a four-cheese soufflé to bacon," Sam goaded his brother.

Dean gave him a dead-eyed stare. "How dare you insinuate that anything could be superior to bacon."

"Maybe she likes jogging in the morning," Sam continued, calmly stirring his coffee.

Now Dean just looked horrified. "What—"

"And nature documentaries," Sam smirked.

"Sam, I will stab you with my spoon," Dean threatened.

Two plates plunked down softly in front of them and the boys looked up like they'd been caught with the cookie jar.

Dean recovered first. "That was quick," he smiled.

"You don't stay a cook long if you can't crank out the meals," she laughed.

"Do you like jogging?" he asked conversationally and Sam hid a smirk behind a drink of coffee.

Mikaela cocked an eyebrow at him. "Are you saying I need to start?"

Dean's smile evaporated into a look of panic. "No! No, of course not! I… uhhh… I was just… curious, you know?" he nodded with a nervous smile.

"Hm," she nodded with a smirk and set down a second, smaller plate for him.

Instead of the standard two strips of bacon, he had four.

"Enjoy," she smiled. "Let me know if you need anything."

Sam snickered as she walked off. "Dude, you are so gone."

"What?" Dean said disparagingly.

"She's got you wrapped already and you haven't even had a date!"

Dean scowled at him and stabbed his fork into his soufflé.

"Hey!" Sam exclaimed indignantly as Dean ate the bite he'd stolen.

"Oh, blegh," Dean made a face of disgust. "How could you eat that? I thought I raised you better."

Sam shook his head, glaring but unable to find anything on Dean's plate he wanted to steal and eat as vengeance. Then his eyes went up to the television in the corner.

"Dean," he nodded to it.

"Not falling for that, Sammy," Dean grinned knowingly.

"No, dude, seriously, the news," Sam insisted seriously and Dean turned around.

"Can you turn that up?" he called over and the volume increased.

"…found just this morning. Authorities say that Susan Welch had bruises on her arms and fractured wrists, indicating that she'd fought back against her attacker. They are confident that this will lead them to her killer quickly, before they strike again."

They showed a clip of the house, the bruises on the victim's arms.

"Sam," Dean turned back to his plate. "Those aren't bruises," he said quietly.

"Frost burns," Sam agreed. "Ghost?"

"Most likely," Dean nodded and sighed. "We really can't get away, can we?"

"Dean, we don't have to get involved," Sam told him. "We're just two out-of-towners, passing through. There's no reason that has to change."

"I can't just let this go, Sam," Dean said with painful earnestness. "I can't. This… this is who I am. It's what I do. It's the family business," he nodded, firm in his decision, even if he was unhappy.

"Okay," Sam nodded. "How do you want to play this?"

"I dunno," Dean sighed. "Can't pretend to be official, 'cause they'll run our pictures and then…"

"End of the road," Sam nodded grimly. "So, just… ground stomping?"

Dean nodded and actually smiled a bit, shoulders relaxing when Sam used their term for 'general nosiness, trespassing and stalking'. "Ground stomping."

* * *

Skulking around in the dark around a house surrounded in crime scene tape suddenly seemed just as unwise as pretending to be federal agents or marshals and walking into the precinct.

"Dean, we can't go into the house!" Sam hissed as his brother examined the lock. "They'll have our footprints and everything else and we just got off the hook for murder!"

"Relax, Sammy," Dean grinned that devil-may-care grin. "I've done this before."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?!"

"Ah-ha!" Dean held up a spare key. "Under the flower pot. As usual. C'mon, Sam, let's go."

"Our shoes, Dean," Sam repeated shortly. "Shoes."

Dean smugly held up some forensic shoe covers and Sam gave him a deadpan look.

"You couldn't have mentioned that before?"

"You never asked, Sammy," Dean grinned and slipped a pair on over his boots, then put on a pair of gloves too.

The inside of the house, aside from the chalk outline and demolished living room, was immaculate, so they focused their search in the living room first. After about thirty minutes and a search of the rest of the house, Dean's detector hadn't even let out a squawk.

"Okay… maybe it's something she was wearing or… something she keeps at work," Sam suggested.

"Maybe," Dean nodded. "Let's find out."

They left everything exactly as they'd found it and quietly made their back to the Impala, parked about five blocks away in an alley.

A figure watched them go from the shadows.


End file.
